Chapter 28: The Puppet’s Strings

Words : 955 Updated : Sep 17th, 2025

Chapter 28: The Puppet’s Strings The dimly lit history classroom hummed with the monotonous drone of Professor Eldrin’s lecture. Ashen slumped in the back row, his head pillowed on folded arms. Beside him, Sasha Whitehall sat rigidly straight, her quill scratching perfect notes across parchment. [System: You do realize this is "Great Betrayals in Magical History"? Might be relevant for a professional backstabber like you.] Ashen ignored the jab, letting his eyelids droop shut. An hour later, he stirred to find the professor still rambling. The clock taunted him - another sixty minutes of this torture. His gaze slid to Sasha, noticing how her knuckles whitened around her quill. [System: Bored already? Try not to corrupt the honor student too much.] Leaning in, Ashen dropped his voice to a murmur. "Hey Sasha. Did you know Eren stalks you?" The quill snapped in her grip, ink splattering across pristine notes. "W-What?!" [System: Oh this should be good.] Ashen smirked. "Didn’t think someone like him would understand real love, huh? Always ranting about how ’women should know their place.’ That his perfect wife would be an obedient puppet, even if he walked the wrong path." He tilted his head. "Guess you changed him. Or... maybe you’re that puppet he wanted." Sasha’s expression frosted over. "I don’t care about him. I know exactly what he’s like - that’s why I’d rather die than be bound to him." [System: Dramatic. I like her.] "But your father serves the Whitehounds," Ashen pressed. "If Prince Eren demands you, what choice do you have?" Her breath hitched. "Can’t I choose my own path? Is my fate already sealed? Why... why me?" Her voice cracked. For a fleeting moment, something unfamiliar twinged in Ashen’s chest. Then he seized her wrist, his grip firm. "Listen. Your fate isn’t written yet." His voice dropped, intense. "I swear on my mother’s name - even if the gods are scripting your life, I’ll rip the pen from their hands and give it to you." [System: ...Who are you and what have you done with Ashen?] Sasha’s eyes widened. "You’re brave. You’re kind. You deserve your own path." His shadow curled around her fingers like a living promise. "And any obstacles? I’ll reduce them to ash." [System: Okay, seriously, this saint act is creeping me out.] Ashen released her, his lazy grin returning. "Who said anything about sainthood?" He tapped his bracelet, pulling up a holographic recording of their entire conversation. With deft edits, he enhanced Sasha’s despair, trimmed his own words, and spliced her sobs into something far more damning. [System: Ah. There’s the bastard I know.] "Now let’s deliver this to Eren’s desk before break ends." Twenty minutes later, Ashen slipped into the vacant Whitehound dormitory. Eren’s obsessively organized desk gleamed under the dim light. [System: You realize this might start a war, right?] "Good." Ashen plugged in the flash drive, watching the edited footage play. "Wars make excellent distractions." The footage showed Sasha’s tear-streaked face, her spliced voice declaring: "I’d rather die than be Eren’s bride!" followed by Ashen’s edited narration: "Poor Prince Eren - even the girl he loves would choose death over him." [System: You’re evil. I approve.] The classroom door had barely clicked shut behind Ashen when three figures materialized from the shadows—elven nobles, their silver hair gleaming under the academy’s torches, their pointed ears twitching with barely contained arrogance. "Crimson," the tallest sneered, blocking his path. "Mark your calendar. In two months, the Rank Challenge opens. And I’ll personally drag you down from that stolen pedestal of yours." Ashen exhaled slowly, his mother’s voice echoing in his mind. Patience, my storm. Not every battle needs blood. Then the second elf laughed. "Look at him. Mother’s little pup. How could a woman raise a bastard like you? Weak. Cowardly. Winning through tricks—" The third smirked. "Maybe his mother was the same. Bad genes always—" SHING. A blade of pure shadow lashed out—too fast to dodge, too sharp to feel. The elf’s tongue hit the floor before his scream did. Silence. Then chaos. The remaining two lunged. Ashen’s boot cracked ribs before they could blink. A fist shattered a nose. A knee drove into a stomach. Blood splattered the marble floors, the walls, his uniform. His own knuckles split open, but he felt no pain—only the white-hot burn of rage. Students froze. Professors paled. No one moved to intervene. Until— "ENOUGH." A voice like frozen steel cut through the violence. The Judgment The disciplinary office smelled of ink and authority. Ashen sat in the center chair, his shadow writhing like a caged beast. Across the obsidian table, two women regarded him with glacial calm. Layla Nowa, Student Council President and Liora’s elder sister, was elegance incarnate—tall, her silver hair coiled into an intricate braid, her violet eyes sharp enough to flay skin. Unlike Liora’s delicate beauty, Layla carried herself like a queen who’d personally executed traitors. The golden "President" badge on her lapel gleamed like a guillotine’s edge. Beside her, Lucielle Crimson—Ashen’s sister—sat perfectly still. Her crimson hair was bound tight, her golden eyes burning with quiet fury. The Vice President’s insignia on her collar might as well have been a brand. Layla steepled her fingers. "One severed tongue. Two broken ribs. Three concussions." She tilted her head. "Would you like to explain?" Ashen licked blood from his split lip. "They insulted my mother." Lucielle’s pen snapped. "And that justifies mutilation?" "Yes." The temperature dropped. Layla exhaled. "The elven delegation will demand your expulsion. Or your head." Ashen leaned forward, his shadow stretching across the table. "Let them try." Silence. Then Lucielle spoke, her voice barely audible. "Why must you always choose destruction?" Ashen didn’t answer. 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Chapter 28: The Puppet’s Strings

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